Desert Island

Chapter 1


Charles Rakeman woke up quickly and, by instinct, as if someone was about to stab him in his sleep, he grasped from the tent wall and cocked his double barrel. But the tent was empty. It was not without relief that he exhaled. He knew this distinct sense far too well and through his long adventurous life he had learned not to like it. Charles Rakeman woke up that morning with a sense of trouble waiting.

The sun blinded him when he climbed out and he had to make a dash for the palm trees whose thin shadows provided the only protection from the mid-noon tropical glare within a radius of the nearest hundred yards. There, leaning against the hollow trunk he yawned rubbing his eyes and then stared at the coast line and the sea beyond whose cyan waves lazily washed at the sandy banks. There, on the misty blue horizon was a white speck, "Poseidon", his boat that was anchored at the nearest coral reef.

"Good lord, Charles! Never saw you on your back so late!" said one of his companions and he walked by carrying a handful of firewood.

Charles turned his head in his direction and, repressing another yawn, tried to smile. It was Freddy, a friendly chap, rather short in height and extremely loud in hot discussions, if those ever happened with Charles around. They knew each other for quite a long time, Charles and Freddy. Scuba diving, rock climbing, playing tennis. So many journeys on the Poseidon so many continents passed, so many islands conquered. He was a good friend, a true friend, albeit he had a short temper, which was nonetheless acceptable considering his part as a crew member. Who else could better shout orders, run laps around some port town or even negotiate with crooks at the port using for the benefit of the whole team the loudest syllables of his speech.

Freddy's opinion of his destiny changed many times, sometimes even several times over a course of a day. He was an impatient little chap, he often jumped from one task to another. Charles knew right away where placing him would be most appropriate and soon he found he was right. The crew could use an energetic member like Freddy and Freddy's contribution has appeared to create a balance that so many teams often lack.

Charles stared after him in admiration. He wondered if Freddy was the first one to be up of his feet this morning, after the long hours of labor last night. Hew wondered if he should ask just out of curiosity. He also wondered how long his head would keep on hurting. He then made it for the circle of friends, his crew members who, it seemed, were having breakfast.

"Coffee lads?" Charles sat on the sand right beside the small fire.

"Sorry, we drank the lot this morning," said Sonny trying to sound apologetic. It hardly worked.

Charles tried made a grimace but he was still too sleepy to make himself look angry.

"Okay, Okay, He's pulling your leg, mate," Freddy laughed. "Here, we saved you some."

"What a night." Charles rubbed his eyes again, then he violently shook his head and took the small traveling cup.

"Still love your job?"

"Still love my job," Charles stared again at the blue horizon. From this point it was visible through several sprouts of tropical vegetation.

"I called this bay, Charlie. So lovely," Sonny smiled. "Is that fine by you?"

"It's fine by me," Charles gave him a fake look with his eyes closed.

"I checked the law book," Sonny continued without noticing the sarcasm. "Apparently we can ditch the continents and not get our butts sued."

"Yeah, except you're gonna have to find some sort of money to build an airport and a couple hotels," said Matthew.

"Or would you be happy to feed on coconuts for the next ten years?" laughed Richard.

"Whatever lads! We can build a temporary dock and then turn it into a seaport!"

"Isn't this island off the main stream?" Harrison's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh they'll make a route," Sonny nodded. Then he added. "Once they see the photographs at the traveling bureau."

Charles signed rolling his eyes. Sonny has always been an ambitious little chap, constantly trying to break away from the team and start his own little path. And luckily for him his path usually lay in the same general direction as that of the team, so instead of opposing him the crew members just tore after him like a mob of miners, clearing and widening the otherwise too narrow tunnel that Sonny left behind in the sandbox of things to be done. Everything the crew did was done Sonny's way, so, naturally, the guy had a sense of style, which, in fact, was shaped by Charles himself. It was this very balance of restricting and allowing that Charles maintained between himself and Sonny that made Sonny an invaluable team member bonded by trust and sympathy.

"What's for breakfast?" Charles inquired.

"Campfire fried bacon and omlet with cheese and guava." Sonny handed him an awfully smelling plastic plate.

"That's not guava, they're called figi, you tosso, they are sweet and they taste horrible! Where's Ryan?"

"On the ship."

"Oh bollocks, he is the chef, you know!"

He tried a mouthful, as he was hungry enough to eat earth itself and suddenly he no longer found surprising that nobody else complained.

"Good job last night, lads, by the by," said Charles with his mouth full.

"Oh don't mind us, noone works nearly as much as you," Richard laughed. "Seventy hectares in one night!"

"Hey if this deal goes through, what do we get?" Freddy asked. "Thirty grand a piece?"

"I hear forty." Matthew tapped his coffee mug.

Freddy whistled.

"It's a damn good island. I'm surprised myself noone's found it yet."

"What in god's name is that sound?" suddenly Sonny jumped to his feet.

Everyone stopped chewing. Everyone listened.

The wind gently played in the tops of the the trees and a cry of a strange exotic bird pierced the silence once every half a minute. But apart from these soothing sounds of nature an artificial hollow beat rhythmed methodically like a drumbeat, or, closer yet, ax chopping wood.

"Oh my dear god you must be joking," Sonny gasped breathlessly and took off for the shore.

Everyone else too jumped to their feet. Sonny was already behind the tree line, his silhouette flashing on the sandy bank beyond.

"Hey down there!" They heard him yelling. "What on earth do you think you are doing?"

Everyone dashed after him and then stopped dead in their tracks. Sonny was running towards their jollyboat... or what remained of it. A dozen or so pygmies almost naked, save for a couple jewels wrapped around the hips, almost black in skin colour with short curly hair were swinging primitive, stone but seemingly sharp axes and smashing a pile of trash that once used to be a beautiful white dinghy. Charles saw how it would happen before it happened.

"Sonny! Back!" his own voice was a thunder in the blue sky overhead. Whatever happened to his sleepiness? "Everyone after him!"

Sonny would have kept on running and maybe, if he was furious enough, he would crash right into the crowd of naked boat wreckers if it wasn't for a large, red-feathered arrow that whistled out of the black-skinned crowd like the sound of death. Sonny ducked or, at least, tried to. The arrow went into his chest and came sticking out of his left shoulder. They shot to kill. Sonny collapsed like a paper doll. With a yell that a typical ethnologist would classify as cannibalistic the crowd of savages leaped for their prey.

Charles Rakeman no longer knew what he was doing. With a yell he leaped sideways, knocking Freddy off his feet. Within half a second his body picked up enormous speed at which it collided and tore down his own tent in which his double barrel lay. He heard some crew members open fire before he himself managed to find the trigger, and, once he found it, he did not hesitate. Both barrels spat fire and smoke and one of the natives was thrown back knocking off several of his companions. Charles dashed for Sonny his hands instinctively inserted new shells into the back of the barrel. Without stopping he raised the gun and discharged both barrels again. He was just in time to blow off the head of the savage that was closest to Sonny and was already swinging his ax down on the wounded man. Charles blew off his head. But he couldn't stop the hand with the ax.

Sonny, thank god he was still alive, saw the ax and he tried to evade its deathly blow. He spun away. Not right away, but just at the last moment, to confuse the attacker. He was half way up on his side when a sharp pain from the arrow wound wheeled though him like devil's breath. He was already screaming when the ax split his shoulder open.

Charles saw a fountain of blood. He tried to reload the gun again and ran faster. He wasn't the only one running. All his crew members were somewhere behind him quickly running out of bullets. But there was no chance they could make it to Sonny before the mad savages. Like a cloud of black smoke their black bodies, contrasting with the bright sand, consumed Sonny, their screams covering the pitiful moans of their prey.

"No!" Charles screamed and the voice that was no longer his was louder than the gunshots.

He discharged his two barrels one by one, killing two natives. But the remaining savages paid no heed. They seemed to have grabbed Sonny all at once and were now hastily making an escape. Charles grabbed his gun by the barrel and swinging it from side to side like misshaped ax pushed after them with all his might. He could not run any faster, his legs were sinking in the sand and his breathing was that of a marathon runner. He just wasn't suited for battle and survival in this world. He was running out of air. And worst of all, the savages, eventhough burdened by the weight of a weakly resisting fellow, ran like horses on a hippodrome.

But Charles Rakeman never gave up. He started reloading his shotgun again. If these were ordinary island savages like the ones he read about in books they should respect the white man and his gun power. Something here was not right. They should have taken off after the first gunshot. Yet they persisted as if the death of their comrades was insignificant to them. No matter, Charles raised his gun again. He was still within a good range. This time he shot at their feet, trying to take out as many as he could with one shot.

If only he had a pump! He wouldn't need to recharge the stupid gun after every two shots. He chose the double barrel as the answer to a question of style. Not only did he possess a double barrel as a toy when he was a child. Not only did he like the look of the two barrels parallel to each other, a symbol of power and destruction so admired by men when they are still boys. And the power of a double shot was far beyond frightening. Except this time it didn't seem to work.

The beach ended. His last shot, more of an expression of desperate rage, was fired in vain and echoed in the woods as the natives vanished under their shadow carrying Sonny out of sight.

"No-o!" after this last shout, louder than any before, a shout in which anger, confusion, fury, misunderstanding, but much above all, helplessness combined, Charles Rakeman could no longer scream.

(c) 2008, Mikhail Temkine